


Whose Hearts Are Mountains, Roots Are Trees

by htebazytook



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Depression, Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, F/M, Fix It Fic, Happy Ending, Het, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Romance, Slash, Smut, Trouble In Paradise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3640524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trouble in fix-it fic paradise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whose Hearts Are Mountains, Roots Are Trees

**Title:** Whose Hearts Are Mountains, Roots Are Trees  
 **Author:** htebazytook  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** *disclaims*  
 **Pairing:** Bilbo/Thorin  
 **Time Frame:** post - The Battle of the Five Armies AU  
 **Summary:** Trouble in fix-it fic paradise.

 

"You are sure of this?"

"I'm afraid so."

"No . . . no, you must be mistaken, Gandalf. Thráin would not . . . my father would not have . . . "

"It was him, Thorin." A big hand lands on Thorin's shoulder. "And I am truly very sorry."

"So he was alive, after all this time." It is difficult to process because of how long and desperately Thorin had hoped for it. "And he still never saw the mountain reclaimed."

"You have honored him by taking Erebor," Gandalf says. "It is what he wanted."

Thorin turns away from him without reply.

"He was proud of you."

The entrance to Erebor is grander than ever with its gleaming golden floor, busier by far than it had been in Thorin's youth. Dwarves from every walk of life file in through its wide flung gate, carts of goods and returning patrols, the occasional raven flying above the churn of people to some unknown destination within. There is a smattering of familiar faces from the Ered Luin amid the many of Dáin's folk who had decided to stay. It is easy to forget the season within the mountain, but here near the entrance Thorin can hear hopeful birdsong and taste the spring-pungent breeze of the outside world. 

Thorin turns back to the wizard, though he fails to meet his eyes. "Yes," he says. "The quest is fulfilled."

*

Dwalin leads Thorin through the armories, rid now of the dust of disuse and restocked with newly forged weapons. Dáin's people had helped them much, and although Thorin is grateful he also has not forgotten their unwillingness to offer aid before the mountain had been won. Many of Erebor's new guard are from the Iron Hills. The dwarves in the Ered Luin have been slower in coming due to the distance and the bitterness of the winter, and Thorin's sister will remain behind to maintain order during the next gradual exodus of Durin's folk.

Thorin walks with Dwalin now through a rough hewn cavern, past piles of shields and iron helms gleaming in the dimness.

Dwalin makes a pleased sound as he leads Thorin into a chamber where a dozen smiths are beating weapons into submission, uncustomary grin illuminated by the low throb of red-orange light. "Erebor is restored to its former glory at last, is it not? Well, apart from a couple of crumbled statues no thanks to that shaikul dragon, but that'll be set aright in time, I have no doubt."

"There are many that will not see it," Thorin says. "Thrór and Frerin were lost long ago but my father, I had always thought . . . "

Without hesitation Dwalin says, "You have done far greater than they ever could have hoped. But the dead are now at peace, and you are needed here to rule the living."

Dwalin takes Thorin's silence as answer enough and leads him on, up a curling staircase into one of the mountain's many central halls where the din of metalwork is but an echo. It has become a marketplace in function, though of old it had housed an extension of the armories below, training grounds where Thorin had learned to handle axe and sword.

A sharp peal of laughter pierces the bustle of the hall and Thorin sees Bilbo a short distance away. He's perched on a crate and his feet are dangling, clad in fine garments from the Master of Laketown's own tailor which are very hobbit-like if a bit more fur-lined because of the winter they had just endured. But warmer weather is seeping down through the mountain, and Bilbo has undone several of his shirt buttons and rolled up his sleeves. Despite sharing his bed Thorin can't help being very distracted indeed by Bilbo's exposed skin, the carefree laughter that keeps spilling from his lips. Bofur is reenacting some joke or story so enthusiastically that he's practically dancing before Bilbo in the telling. Bilbo doesn't fail to notice Thorin's presence though, and he favors him with a slow blooming smile before speaking again with Bofur.

"Uncle!" cries what could only be Kíli. Fíli had calmed somewhat under the influence of so many older dwarves at council meetings. His energetic brother's constant presence had perhaps influenced Fíli's temperament too much before.

Kíli skids to a halt in front of them. "I have been looking all over the mountain for you."

Dwalin frowns and plucks at Kíli's hair. "Is that a crown of _flowers_ you're wearing, lad?"

"Oh, that, well, yes, as it happens. It's sort of an Elvish tradition with the coming of springtime, you see, and . . . " Kíli's brain catches up with Thorin and Dwalin's unimpressed faces. "I'll just take it off then shall I?"

"You are back from Mirkwood already?" Thorin asks. He hadn't left but a fortnight ago.

"Well it isn't very far when you're traveling by boat rather than barrel, is it? And I was hoping to see Gandalf before he leaves."

"I'm afraid he has gone," Thorin says. "Though he promises to return ere long. I suspect he'll be telling all who will listen about the success of this gamble of his to retake the mountain."

Dwalin elbows him. "I can't think of another soul who'd do a thing like that."

Thorin laughs and shoves Dwalin a bit . "So, Kíli, have you anything to report about our pointy-eared neighbors? I do hope their feasts and dances have not been too gravely disturbed by the defense of the mountain."

"Please, Uncle," Kíli says seriously. "I am an ambassador to that realm, now. And I am certainly not wasting time poking fun at their love of wine and merrymaking. I _have_ got to keep up good relations with the Elves, after all. "

Dwalin's eyebrows climb. "Oh is _that_ what they're calling it now?"

Kíli's eyes go wide. He laughs very loudly and mutters something about needing to find his brother as he trips over himself to escape into the crowd.

*

It is one of the few bedchambers with a fireplace, and its smoke is channeled through the mountain, emptying into the forges and mingling with smoke produced there before rising to dangerous heights and escaping to the skies. Jewel-studded weapons adorn the walls – heirlooms and reminders of ancient battles won and lost, and every inch of the floor is covered in plush new rugs from Dorwinion that Thorin had ordered because Bilbo had taken to grumbling about the cold stone floors on his bare feet.

The room can be lit very well with golden sconces and the candelabras flanking the bed but right now only the molten glow of the fireplace paints the room in reddish shadows.

It doesn't echo in here like in larger chambers, and the carpets further dampen any noise, but above the crackling fire still reverberate sighs and gasps and the rustle of sheets. 

Bilbo is always so unabashed in his desire, and Thorin enjoys how that contrasts with his steadfast fussiness when it comes to table manners or tea-time. Thorin feels privy to a secret version of him that nobody else ever sees.

Bilbo is squirming beneath him now, mostly naked and his skin flushes with blood and firelight. The only piece of jewelry he had ever been interested in accepting, a golden earcuff, glints beckoningly. Thorin licks around it to feel the swirling floral pattern that suggest it had been designed for an Elf (like the mithril). Bilbo doesn't seem to like the clunkier Dwarven items Thorin has offered to him – gems and crowns and official titles that he had dismissed almost offensively casually, but Bilbo also didn't understand the significance of such gestures. He wanted nothing, he'd say instead. He wanted Thorin. 

Bilbo's hand snags mercilessly in Thorin's hair to direct him into a kiss that leaves Thorin breathless. "More, now," Bilbo whines, hips rolling beggingly.

More clothes fall away and soon Bilbo, restless, has flipped them and pushed Thorin up against the elaborate headboard, straddling him and sighing as Thorin's hands roam over his body.

"I am sorry about your father," Bilbo says, and immediately seems startled by himself. "I – well, Balin told me, you see."

Thorin can't quite meet his eye. "Thank you."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Thorin doesn't realize he isn't shaking his head until Bilbo pulls back a bit to look at him with soft concerned eyes. "There is nothing left to say," Thorin tells him.

And for a moment Thorin is angry with Bilbo for setting loose the deep black sense of helplessness that this line of thought rekindles. Bilbo must've seen it in his face, though, because he's kissing Thorin hard now, relentless hands in his hair and demanding body grinding against Thorin's extremely interested cock.

Thorin holds Bilbo's hips still and shifts him back a little so his thrusts make white-hot contact with Bilbo's own arousal.

Bilbo's face is always very expressive, and most of all in moments like this where he gives desperate gasps past a grinning mouth and closes his eyes very tightly. Thorin kisses his jaw and rocks up harder, shuddering with pleasure when Bilbo moves in tandem and his hands trial up Thorin's chest and down his arms and twine their fingers.

"I _want_ ," Bilbo murmurs, " _more_ of you. I always do."

Thorin agrees. He makes to move them into a different position but Bilbo stops him, presses his overheated body close and breathes ticklishly against Thorin's neck, down to nuzzle into the space where it meets his shoulder, lower to lave one of Thorin's hardened nipples with his tongue with heavy lidded eyes on him. He waits until Thorin can't hold back a moan before moving on to the other nipple, which he treats more roughly – sucking it into his mouth and flicking his tongue against the nub in exquisitely filthy preview.

Thorin would've thought being able to predict Bilbo's bedroom habits would make their couplings less exciting, but in fact the sizzle of anticipation is more intoxicating than the urgency of the first time they had lain together - Thorin had healed from the battle at last and Bilbo had been so impatient, bringing Thorin off with his hands and whispered words in a corner of the treasure hoard with coins slipping underfoot.

Bilbo's kisses move down Thorin's chest and follow the trail of hair leading to his groin. He lies down on the mattress to take Thorin's cock into his mouth, body displayed wantonly over disheveled bedding. Thorin can't decide whether to watch his attentive mouth or his plump backside as he fucks the sheets in such a way that propels Thorin's cock into the velvet of his mouth.

Bilbo sucks him so well, taking Thorin much deeper than seems possible, humming around his mouthful while broad swipes of tongue and the delicate fingers trailing up and down his thighs drive Thorin mad. He is getting close already, legs tensing and hands fisting in an effort to stop himself from thrusting into Bilbo's mouth.

Bilbo pulls off briefly to tell him, "Go on." He's watching Thorin with his cock between his lips for a response and Thorin loses control at the sight, finding release breathlessly.

Bilbo resurfaces amid the sparks of pleasure prickling through Thorin's nerves, wipes his wet mouth with the back of his hand and clambers again into Thorin's lap to rut shamelessly against his stomach.

Thorin catches the curls at the back of Bilbo's neck to hold him still for a kiss, tasting himself and relishing the needy little sounds Bilbo makes when Thorin's other hand wraps around his cock.

Bilbo tries to buck into Thorin's hand, tries to escape the kiss to breathe or beg but Thorin wants him here. Bilbo's chest heaves quickly, sweaty and sticking to Thorin's at every point of contact. Thorin feels Bilbo's toes curling on the outsides of his thighs.

Bilbo tears his mouth away at last, gasping, "Yes, yes yes yes yes," to Thorin's chin. "Yes, Thorin." And comes breathlessly for him.

Bilbo remains there panting for a moment before maneuvering off of Thorin with shaky legs to flop down onto the immense rumpled bed, stretching like a cat and seemingly content to sleep naked atop the covers in the firelight.

"Bilbo."

"Mm?" Bilbo turns indolently onto his side to face him.

Thorin tucks the stubborn curls at Bilbo's temple behind his ear and watches the shadows flicker across his cheek.

"Come down here with me, King Under the Mountain," Bilbo says, taking Thorin's hand and tugging until he follows, curling close to him with a sigh before succumbing to sleep.

*

Bilbo is facing away, looking out across the valley. It is barren but for the few brave scraggly trees whose newly budding leaves are like pearl and peridot against their ashen backdrop. He is sitting on the edge of the stone platform in a red silk robe that is slightly too big on him, very sleek and expensive and flattering and he seems made for such finery in Thorin's mind but Thorin also suspects he would be happier in the well worn patchwork version he had left behind in the Shire. It is probably in a crumpled pile on the floor of his bedroom, thrown there in Bilbo's haste to dress more appropriately for his unexpected guests.

Only the members of the company know about the hidden door, and Thorin also knows that Bilbo often retreats here when he wants to think. The thrushes roosting in the rocks are trilling their morning song to a low purplish sunrise.

"It's spring," Bilbo says, apparently having sensed Thorin's presence in the doorway in that slightly supernatural hobbity way of his. "It doesn't look like spring. You expect a certain degree of deadness to the land in the wintertime, but in _spring_ . . . Where are the flowers?"

"They haven't grown yet," Thorin says, sitting beside him on the ledge. "But they will, in time. This place has been long forsaken."

"I know, I know."

"If you wish it, you can plant the flowers yourself. I am sure you will find willing volunteers to join you among those who are settling in the mountain, and perhaps Bard would see fit to coordinate his efforts in Dale with yours."

Bilbo does not seem appeased. He looks out into the distance and sighs.

"I can have those flowers that grow in the Shire brought to you here. Better than that – the lands to the east are known for their exotic plants and - "

Bilbo's voice is biting: "This is not the Shire."

"You . . . " Thorin doesn't know what Bilbo wants him to say. "Your garden at Bag End was impeccable."

"Yes," Bilbo says, deflating a little, "and it is probably in utter disorder by now unless old Holman has kept up with it after all . . . "

"You may plant more green things here," Thorin says. 

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. "Oh I 'may'?" he teases. Certainly it _is_ only teasing now, or at least that is what Bilbo wants it to be. "Thank goodness I've your permission . . . " 

"You have whatever it is you want." Thorin kisses him, relieved to find Bilbo responding to it. His clever hands seeking all the places on Thorin's body that make him shiver as his mouth coaxes Thorin's open enough to lick warmly inside. Thorin groans because of how it sets his blood pounding and because Dáin is due back sometime this morning and there are preparations to be made so he pushes Bilbo away. Bilbo's darkened eyes and pink parted lips entreat Thorin unhelpfully. "Where is it that hobbits come from, I wonder," Thorin says, hand on Bilbo's chest when he tries to lean back in. "Some Vala's fevered dream of the most perfectly desirable creature, no doubt."

Bilbo smirks. "Well, you know, there _is_ an old legend that a hobbit once married an Elf maiden."

Thorin blinks. "An. An El– "

"It was a Took, in fact," Bilbo grins, taking advantage of Thorin's bafflement to climb smoothly up into his lap. "Though I have often wondered how true a tale it is, considering, well, our differences in stature." He is not at all deterred by Thorin's attempts to remove him and has busied himself with sucking on the spot on Thorin's neck that he knows makes his toes curl.

Thorin can't stop his hands roaming over Bilbo's silken robe and silken skin. "Bilbo, I have obligations . . . "

"So that's led me to thinking, Thorin," Bilbo continues between kisses up to his ear, "that perhaps hobbits are in actuality the descendants of Elves _and_ Dwarves."

Thorin pulls back, laughing in disbelief. "You take that back."

Bilbo is so mischievous. "Think about it. The ears, the selective hairiness . . . _ah_!" And he dissolves quickly into laughter and sweet little moans as Thorin sets to kissing every visible inch of his body for the next several minutes.

*

Bilbo's eyes are downcast as he speaks, fiddling with a baked potato instead of scarfing it down immediately. Bofur seems to reply without gesturing or smiling, and Bilbo sighs to his untouched food and nods in halfhearted agreement with whatever he had said.

"Do ye not agree with me, cousin?" blares a voice in his ear.

Thorin refocuses on Dáin, who is sitting two seats away from him at the banquet table. Dwalin, occupying the seat between them, winces and stuffs one finger into the ear nearest Dáin.

The table is enormous even by Dwarven standards, and it is packed with dozens of richly dressed and bejeweled guests. The food is overflowing, much of it imported from the lands to the South and East as well as a sizeable portion that is Erebor-made, though that is mostly in the way of baked goods. Thorin dislikes relying on others, and he hopes the entire table will be filled with the fruits of their own labor before long.

There are several loud partygoers about the edges of the narrow hall, clusters of younger dwarves engaged in impromptu drinking contests and energetic couples dancing to the music of a small brass quintet on a platform in the corner.

Balin, who is sitting on Thorin's other side wearing a heavily jeweled belt, chimes in: "I don't know that we are terribly keen to try new approaches to mining here in Erebor as yet, Lord Dáin. Why, we've only just finished repairing the load bearings in the western tunnels."

Dwalin nods his agreement, arms folded across his chest now as though the extravagance of food is offensive to him.

"And what methods are these?" Thorin asks.

Dáin's grin broadens impossibly. The gold and silver bands in his bright beard catch the candlelight and make him almost too colorful to look at. "Now, I know your folk have tarried some in the Blue Mountains with your smithing and what have you, and it is indisputably a very fine and necessary talent. But in the Iron Hills we have honed many new techniques in the years since the dragon came for _mining_ , and I think having a few of my hewers overseeing yours here in Erebor would be of great benefit to us both."

Thorin knows Dáin well enough to recognize the spark of covetousness in his eyes. Dáin had not experienced the glory of Erebor before now and had always been somewhat dismissive of Thorin's recounting of it in comparison with his home in the Iron Hills. "Indeed?" Thorin says. "I am glad that such techniques have served your people well, but Erebor has never wanted for lack of mineral wealth, or the means to extract it from the ground."

The clink of silverware tapers off in their immediate vicinity, and the silence is disrupted only by Dwalin hiding his snickering with a lengthy sip of ale.

Balin clears his throat. "I have spoken with several of your miners, Dáin, and I can see that you have truly made some impressive innovations. However the Iron Hills are vast and well suited for the slantwise tunneling you have favored there of late. The Lonely Mountain has but a single peak, immense though the mineral stores beneath it may be."

"Aye," Dwalin agrees. "We have nowhere else to go but deeper into the earth."

"And in any case," Balin placates, leaning back a bit and relaxing, "we are still awaiting the return of most of our brethren from the West. It would not be seemly to begin too big of an operation until they have all arrived."

There is an eruption of laughter from behind them in the depths of the hall, and the music which had been lulling in the background now strikes up a livelier tune. Dáin shrugs and busies himself with munching on a turkey leg.

Thorin doesn't wish to yield to him, but he does wonder if doing things differently could have some merit in this instance. Thorin had seen the way things were done in Erebor in his youth, and it had never occurred to him that his role as its ruler might be to enact any change from that. It seems undisciplined . Disrespectful. As though erasing what had been tradition might erase those who had upheld it.

Thorin looks to where Fíli sits on Balin's other side. It is clear he is biting his tongue, mug in hand but doing nothing more than tapping his ring against its pewter handle.

"What is on your mind, Fíli?" Thorin asks.

Fíli hesitates before responding: "I understand what all of you are saying, but what harm could it to do try incorporating some of the ways of our kindred? Many of Dáin's people have settled here, after all. Should we not combine the skills at our disposal and capitalize on the as yet undiscovered wealth that lies beneath the mountain?"

Thrór would not have. Thorin's father would not have. "Perhaps, Fíli," Thorin says, "though I must agree with Balin – we will wait until all have come back to the mountain." 

Dwalin nudges him.

"Yes?"

He is nodding in Bilbo's direction.

"Thorin!" Bilbo says again, looking much better spirited than he had earlier. "Thorin, we will be introducing some measure of landscaping before the gates before long, won't we? Bofur and I were discussing what might be done along the ravine, you see."

Dáin and Dwalin exchange a look. There is little point to landscaping _above_ the ground, for dwarves.

"In time," Thorin replies, having to speak loudly over the noise of the hall with its shrill brass and clinking silverware. "Though there are of course other matters to attend to, first."

Bilbo looks startled. "Thorin, it is _springtime_."

Thorin regards him across candles and Bilbo's only half-eaten plate. "Yes. And we have to make ready our halls for the many new arrivals from the West that are expected now that winter's last snowfall is behind us."

Bilbo laughs a bit tersely. "We have to plant when the ground thaws out, which it will quite soon, I believe."

"I must prioritize the necessities of life before embarking on any such cosmetic projects, Bilbo."

Bilbo opens and shuts his mouth, unhappy but deciding not to exacerbate things further for now. "Well, you are the king," he says in a tone like a shrug. Bofur blinks at him, looking scandalized.

More food is brought, an elaborate desert course featuring candied plums and dates and soon Thorin is further engaged by Dáin and his thoughts on building sturdier and more heavily guarded roads to his own lands. When Thorin glances back to Bilbo he has gone.

*

_When Thorin comes to he is alone. The sky is cold and cloudless above him._

_After sitting up it is difficult to pinpoint the details but he recognizes the general shape of the valley before the mountain. Everything in it is dead. So he must be somewhere near to the place . . . the ruined city. He cannot remember its name._

_"Are you hurt?"_

_Thorin can't see the speaker at first. He feels sick and his legs are like straws, and his head is throbbing. "I am fine."_

_"Come," says the voice._

_"Come," it says again, though it's a different voice now. Gandalf is in the tent. Thorin doesn't know how he'd come into a tent, but feels certain that it makes the most sense to be here now. "You are called for," Gandalf continues._

_Thorin frowns. "I have already claimed the mountain . . . "_

_But Gandalf leads Thorin through flapping folds of canvas that billow out hugely around them to their destination._

_Thorin can't understand it. Bilbo with red all around him like his long-lost coat had melted, dirty matted hair and a notched Elven sword on the floor. It doesn’t make sense, and Thorin doesn't understand the joke of it._

_Bilbo's eyes are dazed in the way they are when he is clinging to Thorin and close to climax but it is horrible to see them now because he can barely lift them or keep them open or focus on anything. "Oh, it's you. Oh, good . . . I would hate to have parted from you as I did."_

_"No," Thorin says, unable to stop shaking his head. Bilbo is very pale. "No, don't you dare."_

_Bilbo cracks a smile. "You are such a very stubborn dwarf."_

 

It's dark. Low-burning fire barely illuminating the outline of the room. 

Thorin sits up abruptly in the murky reddish light. The sheets are mussed and bereft of hobbits. Hobbits who had been fast asleep when Thorin had returned after several hours spent with Dáin and his imported ale.

Thorin's heart had beat too fast with the shock of awakening. Now it pounds in triple time with newfound panic.

Thorin pulls on the nearest pair of britches, which are luckily his own, and pads across the carpeted floor in a way that feels much more muted than the situation calls for. It takes too long to light a torch in the dying fire so Thorin gives it up and stumbles out into the dim stone hallway alone.

Thorin knows the warren of pathways through Erebor like the back of his hand even after all these years, but now the tunnels seem to trick him into turning right when he should've gone left, leading him on a convoluted chase through their endlessness.

At length he arrives in a long abandoned library. It has been cleaned up well enough, though the corners of the room are still cobwebbed and cluttered with teetering stacks of books. It is one of the most wooden rooms in the mountain, crowded by tall maple shelves that overflow with ancient tomes.

Lit by a lantern in the middle is Bilbo in a high backed chair, reading one of the few books not written in runes with his red robe wrapped around him for warmth in the chilly room. The turn of the next page is as loud as Thorin's relief.

"Are you all right?"

Bilbo doesn't look up. He flips through the pages idly. "Astron."

"Astron?"

"It's soon. April, to the Big Folk, I don't know what dwarves . . . anyway." Bilbo sighs to the book. "There's a feast, of course. My cousins on my mother's side always have a big to-do in The Great Smials but in Hobbiton it's a somewhat less ostentatious affair. There are games in the market. Holman makes sweet bread and the lasses make flower garlands, you know, buttercups and crocuses mainly. There are so many dances that even the younger hobbits grow tired as the night wears on . . . "

"Now that the mountain is reclaimed folk of all kinds will come from far and wide to trade with us, and not only dwarves. Many peoples will wish to resettle amid the newfound prosperity here."

"Hobbits won't," Bilbo says, wooden like the room. "Hobbits don't care about such things."

Thorin tries not to hear him. He walks forward and takes the book away, takes Bilbo's hands to pull him to his feet and close.

Bilbo's arms wind automatic around him and Thorin can feel the tension in his body that lingers even after he heaves a sigh.

Thorin's hands travel beneath Bilbo's robe where he wears only a cotton nightshirt. The warmth of him is grounding, and he leans into Thorin's touch while burrowing closer.

Thorin pushes Bilbo's robe off, runs his hands down his back and up under his shirt. Bilbo shivers at the chill of Thorin's hands but relaxes into him nevertheless.

Another violent little sigh escapes Bilbo before he lunges forward to fasten his mouth to Thorin's, a hard adamant kiss whose force makes Thorin stumble back a little. Bilbo follows, though, arms around him tight and driving the kiss quickly deeper.

Thorin is dizzied by him so he backs Bilbo up against one of the high bookshelves to keep them stable, pressing Bilbo's restless hands into bookspines and licking across Bilbo's parted lips before dipping inside again and getting him to moan.

Bilbo's arousal is swelling now, rolling his hips into Thorin's and hitching one leg up around Thorin's hip. He kisses back with taunting tongue and the pull of teeth at Thorin's top lip before sucking it soothingly. Thorin moves with him, against him with firm thrusts that Bilbo meets and growls over.

Thorin tears his mouth away. "Bilbo, do you want - ?"

"Just take me." He says it with as much exacerbation as lust, capturing Thorin's hand and raising it up so he can take two of his fingers into his mouth. Thorin's blood drains rapidly southward at the sight, Bilbo's coy eyes and the melty heat of his tongue circling softly.

Bilbo shrugs out of his nightshirt. Sucks harder. Opens Thorin's britches. Sucks him deeper.

"Come on," Bilbo says, dragging Thorin's hand down between his legs now.

Thorin reaches behind and presses one finger against his entrance, breaching the ring of muscle carefully but Bilbo is bearing down.

" _Come on_ ," Bilbo repeats, kisses him with more sweetness than his tone has. "I want you."

Thorin kisses him back to stop him talking and inserts a second finger. Bilbo seems far too tight to be fucking himself as he is, hands moving over Thorin's bare chest and shoulders and arms.

When Thorin does hoist Bilbo up and replaces his fingers with his cock Bilbo is sighing with relief. His legs wrap around Thorin's waist, hair on his feet tickling as he squirms and closes his eyes against the feel of Thorin filling him.

Once Thorin is buried fully inside he stills. Bilbo's head tipped with curls smashed against books and eyes shut and brows furrowed. "It's all right," he insists.

Thorin turns Bilbo's chin. "Look at me."

Bilbo laughs and opens his eyes. "Happy?"

Thorin hates the question. He pulls out a little to thrust back into him hard and Bilbo's eyes roll back satisfyingly with a grin and a gasp.

Thorin's body strains with the effort of holding him against the bookshelf but that is somehow just another addictive sensation mixed in with the rest. He drives into Bilbo relentlessly and Bilbo is very vocal in his approval, shouting loud enough that it echoes through the library and Thorin thinks he can taste the flavor of his desire in the sound.

Bilbo's weeping cock is smearing against Thorin's stomach and his legs are tightening around Thorin's waist. He won't stop moaning in Thorin's ear, giving little yelps whenever there is a particularly accurate thrust.

"You feel marvelous," Thorin babbles, dazzled by the tight heat of his body. He shifts Bilbo's hips up a little and fucks him deeper.

Bilbo's only response is to throw his head back and gasp Thorin's name, one hand grabbing Thorin's arm like a vice in what Thorin knows is a warning that he's close to climax. The dazed look in his eyes has been spoiled of its magic by the uneasy thoughts that linger still from Thorin's dream. Thorin worms a hand between them to give Bilbo a few rough strokes that put him quickly over the edge.

Bilbo undulates against him through the aftershocks, limbs going limp now but he still gasps, "Don’t stop," to Thorin until Thorin hits that brilliant peak and comes inside of him.

Bilbo nudges Thorin until he pulls out, using Thorin's shoulders to balance as he stands again. He leans back against the bookshelf, draws Thorin in to kiss again for long minutes while their heartbeats slow.

*

Erebor's entrance is teeming with people, and the sunlight streaming through the gates is almost too bright. There are fresh fruits from the south, wagons-full of fabrics, cobblers and tailors and leatherworkers filing steadily in and out across the golden floor. It is a warm day, and Bilbo isn't wearing a coat. For the first time in months his lack of boots seems reasonable. The cuff near the point of his ear isn't much, but it is enough to tether him somewhat to the world that swirls along in the background.

"Ah, the green smell," Bilbo sighs. "I do wish Erebor had more in the way of balconies. As far as I can tell, the hidden door seems to be the only thing that comes close."

Thorin smiles. "While I can certainly see your point, Mr. Baggins, I fear this is not an Elvenhome like Rivendell."

Bilbo makes a face. "You're _sure_?"

They pause to let a cart of firewood pass before turning down the causeway leading into the mountain.

"Perhaps you might consult Kíli on the matter," Bilbo suggests. "He is more familiar than any of us with Elven ways, I shouldn't wonder."

Thorin shakes his head, chuckling. "Next you will be suggesting we all start wearing gowns and don tiaras."

Kíli has never told Thorin. Nobody has, and Bilbo has always assumed that Thorin must know that the second in line to the throne is romantically entangled with an Elf. It had certainly been a shock when Bilbo had begun speaking of it openly during Kíli's first trip to the Woodland Realm, but Thorin found he couldn't muster the outrage. The way Fíli spoke of Tauriel – that she had not only fended off their foul pursuers in the Forest River but had followed them to Esgaroth and healed Kíli's wounds – gave her a certain nobility in Thorin's view which was further cemented by their apparently shared disdain for Thranduil. 

Elves, on the whole, had made it their business to slight Dwarves any time they weren't busy killing one another over synthetic jewelry or boats. They were more selfish and untrustworthy than people thought of Dwarves as being, but if Tauriel had been conducting herself with honor then Thorin could not find fault with her for her race's sins.

"It is becoming so crowded," Bilbo remarks. "How many more are due to arrive from the Blue Mountains?"

"Dís will likely lead the largest convoy of those who have remained behind ere long. And the sons of Gróin shall be with those who are too young or old to defend themselves in the Wild."

Bilbo coughs. "I'm sorry? Did you say 'sons of _groin_ '?"

"Óin and Glóin. They set out many weeks ago, you know that."

"Right, I just. Right," he says, though he smothers another giggle too.

They walk then in silence, passing under pulleys and moving ever further into the mountain. The light grows yellower with torches and the color of Bilbo's bright clothes becomes more saturated – new red waistcoat with a high stiff collar unlike a Shire-made garment, white silk shirt with silver clasps and not brass buttons.

"Bilbo," Thorin begins, encouraged by the smile Bilbo throws his way. "I hope you understand that I have certain obligations to those who are coming to join us here. I have promised them much, and I must make every effort to uphold my word to them."

"Well yes, of course."

"But once those promises are fulfilled and my people are settled I shall make you feel properly at home. You shall have your own apartments fashioned in the style of your hobbit hole, and I shall have imported anything you so desire from the Shire – why, we can even send for your own things from Bag End."

Bilbo's face has frozen in disbelief, and Thorin is just beginning to relax when Bilbo says, "Sorry, what am I?"

Thorin frowns. "I . . . what?"

Bilbo laughs. "I am not a dwarf, certainly, but I should hope my part in the quest was worthy enough to be counted as one of your company, at least, if I cannot be one of your people."

His hostile tone quickly erases the easy fondness Thorin had been basking in with him today. "You do not act as if you are one of us, Bilbo, so you cannot blame me for saying so. You refuse the jewels I would have you wear, you will not stay by my side at feasts or assemblies as you ought to. You don't want to participate in the governing of this city, yet you complain about my decisions. If you do not want the comforts of your home recreated here for you then what is it that you do want?"

"It isn't _things_ , Thorin. I miss being around other hobbits – well, not exactly that, but . . . Put it this way, I understand the way of things, in the Shire, and am not such a fish out of water there. I do not belong here, and I never have, really. And although I haven't much family that I am particularly close with I am still much farther away from them in Erebor than I wish to be. I miss . . . " Bilbo looks away from Thorin, shaking his head. "It's hard to explain. The woods and the fields where I go walking. All the little rivers I skipped stones in as a child and still drink from in the springtime."

"There will _be_ woods, here. And I shall plant all the trees you like best before the gates."

"Will you indeed?" Bilbo rounds on him, reminiscence shattered. " _Will_ you keep your promises to me? From what I have known of Thorin Oakenshield, he seldom keeps his word when dwarves are not concerned."

"Then go! Go back to your books and armchair and the better flourishing trees of your own homeland and trouble yourself with mine no longer!"

Bilbo glances around. Thorin follows his eyes – dwarves are staring at them, Dáin's and Thorin's people, merchants in mid-sentence with their customers.

Embarrassment overtakes Thorin's fury even as Bilbo grabs his wrist and marches him into an alley behind a toymaker's stand.

When Thorin lifts his gaze he catches Bilbo looking at him with concern once more. "Thank you," Thorin says.

Bilbo sighs. "Yes, well. We were making a bit of a scene." He sighs again but it does little to calm him. He's fidgeting, one hand straying into his waistcoat pocket.

"You of all people must understand how I feel, though," Bilbo says. "Duty bound to one place while my heart lies elsewhere."

"I do." Though Thorin wishes he didn't, because he knows which had been the only choice for him.

"Right." Bilbo nods to himself. "Right," he repeats, stepping around Thorin to leave.

*

Thorin sits on the ground beside the hidden door. It is quiet and windy up here, though the bustle of Erebor wafts up with the smell of earth in the breeze. He is in the dust in furs and jewels beyond price and the sharp confining crown of his house. 

Thorin can barely remember a time when he hadn't longed to return to the mountain. The days before Smaug had been simple, and he'd expected the days after his departure to be the same. He'd expected to feel a sense of relief to rival the anguish he had borne for so long, but the peace he had brought to his people had only made him miss the days spent on the quest. To be in pursuit of something seemed far worthier than simply taking what was given without contest.

The crunch of gravel beside him is followed by the flapping of velvet robes in a gust of air. Balin looks out toward Mirkwood with his hands on his hips and his beard floating up with the wind.

"Do you remember when we first opened the door?" Thorin asks, looking up to him.

Balin is smiling. "I could not forget it if I tried."

"It was Bilbo's doing," Thorin says, remembering the gleam of moonlight on his elated face. "He had no stake at all in this and yet his will was ever the strongest of us all."

"Hobbits are curious creatures."

"He will have much renown throughout Middle-earth for his role in the quest, but in the Shire . . . "

Balin raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I wonder," Thorin sighs, "how those in his homeland will know of his deeds unless he returns to them. It is where he belongs, after all."

"Aye," Balin says, sitting down next to Thorin in the dust now. "And this is where you belong, Thorin. But I fear you are not at home here."

Thorin says nothing, watches the sky and the frenzied paths of ravens against its persistent blue.

"I know that you do not always agree with Fíli, and indeed he is at times a bit - "

"Inexperienced? Rash?"

"Yes. But the truth of it is that nobody is ever prepared enough to rule. And even those who believe that they are have other faults, as I need not remind you."

"You are saying I should relinquish the throne to Fíli _now_ , before Erebor is even halfway stabilized? Do you think I am no longer needed, Balin?"

"I am simply saying that nobody but Thorin Oakenshield could have rallied us to his cause as you did, or refused to give up and won the mountain in spite of any who moved against you. Your people needed you then, but now come the routines of government, the banal affairs of state for which you are not _needed_. Your generation and mine is fast dwindling, and the home that has been reclaimed here is not for us, but for the rash and the inexperienced. Why not leave them to decide its path?"

*

Natural light streams down into the throne room to mingle with the gleam of torches, painting the dwarves gathered before the throne in pale yellow or glazed flickering orange. They each bring their grievances to the king in turn. Thorin is flanked by Fíli and Balin, and in a nearby alcove stand Dwalin in dull armor and Bilbo looking only artificially pleasant. In Thrór's day it had been reserved for his many advisors, but under Thorin's rule it had become the place where those who had business with him would wait. Bilbo, who rarely concerned himself with the business of Erebor, had never waited for him there before.

After the audiences have finished Dwalin steps forward, but Thorin dismisses him because speaking about the improvements to the armory can wait. Dwalin doesn't quite agree, and in the wake of his brusque footsteps only Bilbo remains, looking very small in the cavernous chamber but his presence feels towering. A glowing greenish gloom pervades the space between them.

Bilbo offers a wan smile as he approaches. "Do you have the time for one more petition, Thorin son of Thráin?"

Thorin steps down from the throne to meet him. The Arkenstone, now restored to its rightful place, is as dazzling as ever watching over them, yet to Thorin its beauty has been corrupted by the suffering he had wrought for its sake. "No," Thorin says. "I have one of my own first, if you will hear me."

Bilbo folds his arms and waits, eyes gone guarded in the shadows.

"You should go back to the Shire. For although you made a most excellent burglar, you do not belong here."

Bilbo is still. "I'll just slip quietly away then, shall I?"

Thorin takes some echoing steps closer to place his hands on Bilbo's shoulders. "If that is your wish. Or, I could slip away with you, there. Be on the road with you again and enjoy the comforts of your home properly after that. Ere autumn ends, when the trees you hold in such high regard begin to lose their brilliance, Erebor would welcome you back to endure the wintertime again."

Bilbo's frown is almost comical. He tries a few half-formed sentences before simply giving up and laughing. "And what, may I ask, would you do in the Shire? Be King Under the Hill?"

Thorin is too relieved by Bilbo's return to lightheartedness to think beyond it. "What do _you_ do in the Shire?"

"Eat, for one thing. And drink. And smoke, of course."

"Is that all?"

"Well," Bilbo grins, "we eat quite a _lot_ of food . . . "

Thorin's hand moves from Bilbo's shoulder to cup his jaw. "What say you?"

"But . . . who will rule in your stead? Not Fíli, surely – is he ready for such a charge? And what about travel? It wasn't the easiest journey hence, if you'll recall, and - "

Thorin kisses him quiet. And again when Bilbo's arms wind tight around him and he gives a little moan.

Bilbo tears his mouth away on a laugh. "Thorin, you do realize where we are."

Thorin looks around them. The chamber is carved into beautiful stone and the statues of his forefathers are vigilant along the pathway to the throne. It is huge and impressive and unbearably isolating beyond the warmth of Bilbo's voice and his grounding embrace.

"I do," Thorin says. "Though the road goes ever on."

*


End file.
